


Put It On Me

by am_bellanoire



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Established Relationship, F/F, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, Light Dom/sub, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-24
Updated: 2020-06-24
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:15:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24892984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/am_bellanoire/pseuds/am_bellanoire
Summary: “You're trying to provoke me.”“Provoke you? Now why would I do that? Itty bitty Muggleborn girl like you, who can't even change a few old wizards minds? It would be a waste a time on my part now, wouldn't it?”“Shut up Bella.”Hands clutch at her shoulders, whipping her around and Bella's breath caught at the murderous look etched into her wife's features. She licked her lips, the edges twitching into a smirk.“Or you'll what?”
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Bellatrix Black Lestrange
Comments: 14
Kudos: 232





	Put It On Me

_“I ain't no saint, I ain't no savior, no. I'm just one more sinner trying to survive. When the night is ascending and your demons are dark, when you can't find some faith you may need, oh baby fight the temptation until I arrive. Put it on me, baby, put it on me...”_ -Liz Gillies

* * *

Bellatrix Black did not under any circumstances consider herself a housewife. She was brought up to become one, sure. Trained and outfitted, lectured and groomed to be the object of desire to a wealthy Pureblood wizard. Especially as the eldest daughter of three, it had been her duty to set the example for her younger sisters. Of course, that hadn't worked out at all. From her birth and the seventy two hours of labor she had put her mother through, Bellatrix had gone against the grain. Yes, she was beautiful. She was intelligent – earning the moniker 'brightest witch of her age' during her tutelage at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry - but she was outspoken and passionate, volatile and demanding. She was like a storm, all thunder and lightning and gale force winds. She didn't tiptoe into a room, she rampaged like a cyclone. She didn't whisper, she shouted. She didn't stand behind any man, she strode arrogantly in front of them. Save for one. Tom Riddle. Voldemort. The Dark Lord. He had been the only individual to reel her in. He bent and broke her to his whims and fancies and she bowed willingly. It had earned her a new moniker as the deadliest witch of her age and a fourteen year bid in Azkaban prison. 

But before that. Before the Dementors had sucked away every happy, cheerful, pleasant or contented memory she'd ever known, before the damp, dank coldness had seeped into her bones, before the madness that'd lain dormant at the edges of her mind had been awakened and she'd screeched her vocal chords raw, before all that, she _had_ been a wife. And Rodolphus Lestrange had definitely tried to tame her. Tried to get a couple heirs off her too. Tried to beat her into submission. Until they both realized she had the strange talent to turn pain to pleasure when she wanted to. And the slaps had turned into a strange form of foreplay for her when he would attempt to lay down whatever foolish law his traditionally purist mindset had concocted. She would dole it back tenfold with her wand and her favorite 'unforgivable' curse - the one for which she had the nastiest aptitude, the one that came to her almost as easily as breathing - that would leave hubby darling a screaming, cowering ball of piss and shit. And then she would Obliviate the memory from him so that she could enjoy it the next night and the ones thereafter. 

She had done terrible things in her forty some odd years of life but for some reason, following the Second Wizarding War, the Wizengamot had decided not to kill her. After the Dark Lord fell and she woke up from the coma she'd fallen into courtesy of the botched curse one Molly Weasley had cast on her, she came to in a new world. One where swift death and torture were frowned upon. One where ye olde Azkaban had been demolished and the Dementors that had plagued the island were eradicated. Where some strange sort of Muggle ideal of wicked people being rehabilitated and _saved_ from their wickedness was a form of justice. A new world where instead of being placed in a cold cell bound in shackles she had spent quite some time in a padded white room, rid of her wand, with hordes of doctors bearing charts and asking questions. They had somehow gotten into her head, sifting through memories, picking apart her life and used this to decide that somehow she didn't deserve to rot or be executed. They had found enough _good_ \- what a disgusting word – in her to rule that she was able to be acclimated back into society. 

And she had spent a long time disparaging that decision. She _was_ wicked. Only someone wicked would kill, torture, maim and laugh while doing so just because someone more powerful told them to. Someone wicked or someone weak. And she would rather be wicked than weak. So what if she'd been brainwashed to believe she was superior to over half the magical population of Great Britain because of her blood status and her wealth. Never mind that she had been the first lieutenant of the darkest wizard to ever rise to power. Never mind that she had bore him a child, a child who had blessedly died shortly after taking its first breath. Never mind that she was responsible for the deaths and descents into madness for countless of people. 

She had been set free to do whatever she wanted, to unleash all the malice and vengeance that had festered within her for oh so long and there was nothing anyone could do about it. Their own _good_ becoming their downfall. She would gather her scattered comrades, resurrect their fallen lord, reignite the cause. Because that was all she was, that was all she knew how to be. 

And then she had been reintroduced to one Hermione Granger. 

Best friend of the enemy. The Muggleborn teenager she had mercilessly tortured over a thousand year old sword. The witch who had obviously lost her mind and forgiven her trespasses. The woman who had done what those white cloaked 'Mind Healers' had failed to do and showed her that love wasn't a one way street, that trust was something built and not blindly given, that there was more to life than death and destruction. That every fight didn't have to end in bloodshed. That everything _wasn't_ black and white. Good and evil. That every person on earth was capable of both. Her side, the _good_ side, the light side, the _right_ side had committed the same crimes the bad side, the dark side had. They had killed, they had tortured, they had unearthed demons and used them to their advantage too. Because _their_ cause was just as important to them. Just as righteous, just as worth it. They had believed themselves to be just as right as the Dark Lord had believed himself to be right. 

Bellatrix Black had broken a promise to herself twenty five years after she'd made it. She married again. She had committed the ultimate violation to herself and every imprint her past had tried to indelibly mark onto her in marrying a Muggleborn. Her father Cygnus, her mother Druella– despite her being too scared to open her mouth and speak for herself – her crazy Aunt Walburga. They were probably rolling around, flipping, casting spells, and Merlin only knew what the hell else in their graves. 

Now here she was, standing before a stove, Muggle crafted mind, the humidity from the steam causing her curls to frizz as she violently stirred the alfredo sauce simmering in a metal pot. It was her _wife's_ favorite. Even if she found it smelly and more hassle than it was worth. For over half of her life people had told her she was mental but she'd never felt truly crazy until she realized there was almost nothing she wouldn't do for a certain brunette witch. With the Dark Lord, she had believed in a cause just as ardently as she was forced to believe. Even when tasks he ordered violated her morals – most assumed she had none but she did – she had had no choice. With _this_ , though, it never failed to rattle her that now she did have a choice and for some reason she tended to veer toward the one that favored her lover. 

Sometimes it was worse than being put under an Imperius Curse. But _love_ was good. So they say. There was nothing purer, nothing more wholesome, nothing more beautiful. If anyone had deigned to ask Bellatrix, her response would be that love made some do even crazier things than hate did, made you lose your sense of self far more than hate did because when in love you convinced yourself that whatever you did be it good or bad, harmful or healthy was _right_. But no one wanted the ramblings of a madwoman. Never mind how truthful the truth was. 

Quite suddenly and fearsome enough to derail her train of thought, her wife blasted into their home with the strength of hurricane, the crack of Apparition almost enough to upend the kitchen. Had Bellatrix been made of weaker stuff she might have startled but as it was, she was as stalwart as it came and there was hardly a hitch in the stirring of the sauce even as her irate wife stormed and surged. 

“What's happened?” 

“The Wizengamot voted against the House Elves bill,” Hermione ranted in that Gryffindor way of hers. All passion and gusto without foresight. That was the curse of Godric's students. They had all the fervor and valor and bravery and whatever the fuck else but no damned wisdom. And _yes_ her wife was smart enough to have landed herself in Ravenclaw upon her sorting but she'd lacked that one trait – mental preparedness – to persuade the Hat in the end. 

“I told you they would.”

Bella's tone was purposely calm, laced with amusement and feigned nonchalance, and a very large part of her knew it would add more fuel to the fire currently stoking within her lioness. 

“Excuse me for thinking the Wizarding world would have developed a new code of ethics after the war.”

Oh she was simmering now, practically boiling and Bellatrix could feel that familiar heat surge through her body as she watched her lover become angrier and angrier. And she fed on that anger like a succubus, wanting nothing more than to draw it out and out and out and devour it. 

“That'll take some years

“We're talking about modern day _slavery_ Bella, how many damn years will it take?” 

Bellatrix could feel the storm now, like how some spoke of feeling an impending shower in their joints, the air in the kitchen was thick and practically crackling as Hermione drew nearer. And yet, Bellatrix didn't turn from the stove, she let the energy build and build all the while a different sort of storm was brewing within her as her nipples hardened beneath her dressing gown and her inner thighs pulsed in time with her heartbeat. 

“You're speaking in Muggle terms, pet,” tone almost a tease even in its huskiness, “If our kind hasn't even taken to the electric light yet, why don't you figure out the maths?” She's smart enough to click the stove's burners off when the tingling up her spine alerts her to the fact that her other half is now close enough to touch. She can hear the metal fastenings unsnapping and the airy whoosh of Hermione's Ministry robes hitting the floor. 

“You're trying to provoke me.” 

“Provoke you? Now why would I do that? Itty bitty Muggleborn girl like you, who can't even change a few old wizards minds? It would be a waste a time on my part now, wouldn't it?”

“Shut up Bella.”

Hands clutch at her shoulders, whipping her around and Bella's breath caught at the murderous look etched into her wife's features. She licked her lips, the edges twitching into a smirk. 

“Or you'll what?”

Bellatrix knew what was coming before it actually came and praised that sixth sense of hers to turn off the stove before she felt her wife grab a handful of dark curls in an unforgiving fist and _tug_ her away from the simmering dinner with a noise that was close enough to a snarl to warrant the name. 

“You know what I'll do.”

“Then do it, pet.”

Bellatrix allowed herself to be dragged towards the bedroom. If she really wanted to, she could have overpowered the younger witch quite easily, even with the brunette practically seething. 

And it was almost like a dance into the room, a venomous tango that saw her sprawled on her back, her chest heaving as a lioness, a predator worthy of the savanna, bracing herself on her forearms above her, smiled down with a maliciously toothy grin. 

“You love to play with my emotions, don't you?” 

Clothes disappear with a cleverly spoken spell and almost indolent hand gesture, pale skin bared. Midnight curls uninhibited by cloth to dramatically drape across naked shoulders and ample breasts, down to a battle sculpted torso for the tips to barely brush a womanly curved waist. Just by the glazed look in Hermione's honey brown eyes, she could tell her witch's mouth was dangerously close to watering. 

Despite that, a throaty, unbridled moan breached her full lips as a nipple was engulfed by warm cheeks and a slick tongue, while the other fleshy nub was assaulted, pinched mercilessly between thumb and forefinger. 

And yet, Bellatrix _craved_ more. Even if she did come to enjoy being made love to, learned to bask under soft caresses and gentle touch, she could tell Hermone needed more too. All that anger needed _somewhere_ to go. All that pent up frustration, rage, disappointment. Bellatrix was no stranger to any of that and she just so happened to know the chestnut haired, former Gryffindor better than most people. Golden Girl, they called her. But her little kitty had a temper and it was that temper Bella wanted to tempt.

“You're too soft, pet,” she crooned, though her usual sultry voice was pitched way too high and hindered by breath than she would have liked as the blunt edges of Hermione's nails dug into the skin below her rib cage, pinning her into place to subdue the writhing of her hips as she trailed open mouthed kisses from her breast down the milky plain of her middle, “Much too soft. Maybe that's why they don't take your little laws _mmm_ s-seriously.”

“Just wait,” her lioness all but growled and Bellatrix was not in any fashion of the word prepared when her thighs were abruptly split wide and that right hand that she knew better than anyone else in the entire waking world, that had previously joined its left comrade in an assault at her midsection, now drifted south of her waist to roughly thread through trimmed coarse curls. “Too soft, hmm?” the girl crooned in a saccharine, syrupy sweet voice that had only been acquired from too many years spent with the sable haired former Death Eater,

And Bellatrix, tough as she might be, had to sink her teeth into her lip hard enough to nearly draw blood to stifle the whimper that threatened to escape her throat as Hermione ruthlessly drove two fingers knuckle deep into her core, already dripping from the foreplay and the idea of what was to come. Or _who_ was to come, rather. 

“Still too soft for you, darling?”

Instead of her usual childlike baiting or sarcasm, the only thing Bellatrix could respond with was breathless gasps and choked moans as Hermione quickly set a punishing pace, curling her middle and ring fingers upward and deep to stroke spongy flesh and coax quivering wet walls to climax. And Bella, well, she tried to grab at the rapidly fading strands of control, tried to stifle her moans that grew louder and higher in pitch, tried to slow her breathing as her pulse raced and chest heaved, tried to steady her hips that were bucking up to meet each harsh thrust. But it was futile. Her little witch's ire was indeed something to be reckoned with, and it reared it's regally maned head the now, spurred by Bellatrix's taunting and soon the raven haired witch had no choice but to merely surrender to the overwhelming pleasure and delicious bites of pain, tossing her head back with a sharp cry, fists grabbing at the silken bed linens, spine bowed, giving in, allowing herself to be ravished. 

She was not going to last. And Hermione could sense this, suddenly slowing her hand with a wicked smirk and flashing honey eyes. She draped Bellatrix's legs over her shoulders and surged forward to capture her lover's lower lip between her teeth, nipping hard, causing obsidian eyes to widen as the sharp change in angle staved off impending release.

“They make me mental,” Hermione muttered darkly against the shell of Bella's ear, even as her fingers continued their onslaught, her thumb brushing against the witch's straining clit, “The lot of them. So _fucking_ self righteous, idiotic, archaic - “ the former Gryffindor's body was practically writhing with rage at this point, remembering each condescending look, each placating word she had gotten as she had rallied for the bill to be passed. She sunk her teeth into Bellatrix's neck and _sucked_ , bruising ivory skin, staining it purple, and earning a coveted high pitch, hissing sound from the witch underneath her. But it did nothing to quell her anger, “It makes me want to – want to - _hurt_ \- .” 

And that was when the fiercely protective part within Bellatrix clawed itself through the haze of pleasure, fought to get around the arresting pulse of her core and the sweet sting of the bruise on her neck, sharpening her gaze as she focused on her witch's face, incarnadine with ire, nostrils flared, jaw clenched, mass of chestnut curls taking on its lion like frizz. _Merlin_ she was beautiful, but she was spiraling and it was Bella's job to put her back to rights. And so, she shifted and hooked her ankles around Hermione's waist, pulling her impossibly closer, and _deeper_ making Hermione's fingers stutter to a stop within her, 

“Do it, pet,” she moaned, using both hands to cup Hermione's face and bring her towards a passionate kiss that was all teeth and tongue and purpose, “Hurt me.”

She could feel her other half still above her, going rigid as if she'd been hit with a well aimed Petrificus Totalus. Because Hermione knew exactly what she was requesting. 

“You know I – I don't like doing _that_ Bella,” she murmured, sounding almost like her younger self, gentle of speech with a thread of insecurity sewed into the words.

The resistance was clear, but the desire was there. And Bella knew just how to pull it out. She didn't have to resort to taunting or mockery this time. No. Instead she let her voice sway, low and raspy, erotically breathless from their fucking.

“I just want to hear the word leave your lips,” she husked, kissing lightly against a set jaw, “It's so wrong, but it'll _feel_ right you know that. All the tension, all that frustration gone in one word.” She could feel Hermione start to relax and smiled against peaches and cream skin, “Please say it, just once.”

Manipulative yes as she knew she could never be denied when she used _that_ tone, or said _please_ but of course, it had the desired reaction. 

Hermione's fingers returned to their task, albeit gentler than before, thrusts more precise than frenetic, thumb lightly brushing the bundle of nerves, and Bellatrix can feel her calm, can feel her acquiesce even if Hermione is the one on top for the night. It was a heady feeling, a rush, to know that even when she had so thoroughly relinquished the reins of control, she still had some power in the moment. 

“Come on, pet,” she whispered between sharp exhales as her hips began to roll, seeking more friction, “You know you want to, yes?”

Hermione's free hand gripped the column of Bella's throat, a possessive hold more than an offensive one, as she leaned forward to press their lips together once more. And the kiss was soft, more lip than teeth, tender and apologetic, passionate yet fearful. Bellatrix knew that kiss and she braced herself for the spell to come as her little witch drew in a fortifying breath. 

“ _Crucio_.”

Such a poisonous curse, sealed with such a sweet kiss, and Bella's body instantly reacted. Her lover was a strong witch despite her age and dove white soul, and had she been able to find the ill intent necessary to properly cast, well, Bellatrix was too far gone now in the throes of pleasure to hold any sympathy for whatever poor fool fell at the tip of a vine wood wand. 

The electrical current that passed through her body just toed the line between too much and not enough, all the while Hermione's fingers worked her core, returning to the quick and rough thrusts from before, the pad of her thumb assaulting her clit until finally with a series of broken sobs and quaking thighs, Bellatrix found sweet release at last. And it _was_ torture in it's own right because as her inner walls clenched and her muscles tensed and stars danced before her eyes, she knew the feeling, all that _pleasure_ spurred by pretty pain couldn't possibly last forever. 

Hermione let her ride out the aftershocks, pressing tender love bites along Bella's collarbone before pulling out and settling beside her, draping a strained arm across her waist, relishing in the way her torso rose and fell with labored breaths. 

“You don't have to do this every time I come home up in arms, you know,” she whispered, tone tentative now that the anger and frustration had bled from her body, leaving her feeling vulnerable and somewhat mortified as she got a proper gander at the bruises that marred pale skin, the scratches she had left in her wake. Remembered the moment she had wandlessly cast that curse and the rush of power that had flooded her veins as she had done so. It wasn't the first time and it probably wouldn't be the last, but the shame she felt afterward was still the same. 

Bellatrix sighed, finally catching her breath even as her limbs remained loose and thoroughly worn out and shifted with some effort so that she faced her lover, taking in the furrowed brow and bitten lip. She couldn't help but roll her eyes, fondly though exasperated. 

“Of course I do.”

“But why do you feel you have to?” Being the seeker of knowledge she was, Hermione had to ask, “I mean, do I make you feel like a - “

Bella didn't need her to finish the sentence. She knew her so well. “Hush now, pet. I'm no one's punching bag, Not any more.” Even if the term 'punching bag' had once been foreign, she now knew it was the equivalent of a dueling dummy. 

“So why - “

She pressed a finger to Hermione's lips, cutting the question off mid word with a sharp look and quirked brow, “Fun's over now, yes? I told you to hush.” And waited until Hermione exhaled and nodded to continue.

“I don't know how they do it where you're from, but marriage vows are meant to be taken seriously here. When I pledged matrimony to you, I meant what I vowed. So if it is within that vow to keep you from _ruining_ your chances at becoming the next Minster for Magic, then its my duty to - “

“Your _duty_? Bella, I don't want you to think you're _supposed_ to cater to my every whim. I can't let you think it's okay for me to do _that_ to you. It's not right. It isn't right.”

Bellatrix pinched a supple thigh hard in irritation and warning, earning a hiss of pain and indignant squeak to which she chuckled before ironing out her features once more. 

“Who said anything about whims, love? Years ago I told you you had no idea what it meant to be in a relationship with me. When you asked me to marry you, years later, I told you the same thing. I said 'Pet, you have no idea what you're asking'. And you're proving me right yet again. You're a witch, yes, but you're not from this world. You try to put your Muggle life in things where it doesn't belong.” 

A slight sniffle drew her focus back to her lover's face and she could see tears filling and spilling from honey eyes and sighed. “What are these for now?” she cooed, scrubbing the wetness from reddened cheeks, “I mean it was good, anybody else would have been thrown on their arse. But without the intent to harm, it barely stung, the curse. I liked it. You know that.” 

“Yes but I was angry enough that I was afraid I could have accidentally hurt you, and I shouldn't bring that home to you.”

“Your upset today isn't wrong. But you'll try again, won't you? With a clearer head now. Couldn't have you blasting Unforgivables at everyone who opposed you.” Bellatrix smiled at the watery laugh that breached Hermione's lips, “It's my job to rein you in, so it's your job to do the same for me. Don't you see?”

“I – I don't know.”

“Well then,” lithe as a panther she pounced, devouring the shocked and aroused gasp from her lover with a full mouth as she flipped Hermione onto her back, unbound sable curls surrounding them both like a dark curtain, “let me show you. Let me put all those silly fears to rest, let me fuck you, feed you, then put you to sleep so you can go to work tomorrow all fierce but level headed.” She could feel Hermione's wetness and couldn't wait to lick it all up, “Let me take care of you, pet.” 

Bellatrix Black did not under any circumstances consider herself a housewife but when it came to making sure her wife knew she was loved, knew she had another half, knew whatever emotions she felt would be handled even when she could not handle them by herself, well she knew she could take care of that. She had always been called crazy and love _did_ make one do crazy things.

**Author's Note:**

> I've been taking time to myself, much needed time, focusing on my health and my mental well being and my writing. I hope all of you are doing as well as could be expected. I hope you all have support and love and compassion and help when you need it. I hope that your voice is being heard. 
> 
> This was a little teaser of what's to come. I've been working on updates for my WIPs as well as so much new content. 
> 
> Thank you so much for reading and feedback would appreciated!


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